


Research - First Kiss

by Breath4Soul



Series: John is a Tender BAMF [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army, BAMF John, Background Relationships, Backstory, Battle, Battlefield, Battlefield love, Bombs, Canon Backstory, Captain John Watson, Doctor John, Doctor John Watson, First Kiss, For Science!, Headcanon, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, John Saves The Day, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Military, Military Background, Military Backstory, Military John, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Questions, Research, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tenderness, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you ever kissed a man, John?” Sherlock’s voice is even and slightly disinterested.</p><p>John’s eyes widen. “Sorry, what?”</p><p>“You heard me perfectly well. A simple yes or no will suffice,” Sherlock’s voice is a sigh of impatience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Research - First Kiss

Sherlock looks up from his computer. The early morning light is gray and sleepy, slinking in the windows of the sitting room at 221B. His eyes narrow on John, who is lounging in his usual chair by the fireplace and has just opened the newspaper. He waits for his flatmate to return his gaze.

The ex-army doctor shifts slightly under the scrutiny, then finally drags his eyes from his paper to meet the sharply perceptive gaze of his friend. His eyebrows arch in a silent question. When the detective just stares at him, John finally huffs, “What? 

“Have you ever kissed a man, John?” Sherlock’s voice is even and slightly disinterested as if he is asking about the weather or if the doctor likes sugar in his coffee.

Dark blue eyes widen even as the doctor's face goes intentionally blank. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me perfectly well. A simple yes or no will suffice,” The detective's voice is his typical imperious and beleaguered sigh of impatience that he uses to display his frustration when he fails to get what he wants immediately.

John lowers the paper slowly.

“What is this about, Sherlock?”

“Research. Answer the question, John.” The doctor turns his eyes back to his newspaper; shaking it to straighten it. 

“I’m not discussing _this_ with _you_ , Sherlock.” He states curtly.

“So that’s a _yes_.” The detective counters flatly. His gaze returns to his computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

“That’s not - _not_ what I said.” John puts his paper down roughly, his jaw clenched and his eyes drawn down into slits. Sherlock ignores the heated glare. He gazes at the computer screen with indifference and his hand moves rapidly on the mouse pad, scrolling for the sake of doing something. He lets John simmer a moment, his frustration slowly leeching off of him. He knows John's temper is quick but it is also rarely enduring. Given time to grapple and come to terms with new and uncomfortable experiences, John demonstrates remarkable tolerance. Sherlock waits until he hears his breathing normalize before proceeding. 

“Technically, no. However, you said you are 'not going to talk about it _with me_ ,' meaning there _is_ something to talk about. Ergo, you _have_ kissed a man.” 

John’s face turns red and his jaw tenses.

"Sherlock," he growls. "I'm not-"

“You’re _not gay_.” Sherlock interrupts. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I know. You’ve taken pains to make _that point_ abundantly clear.”

“Right. Fine… Then, let’s drop it.” John pulls up his paper, shaking it to straighten it, with an air of finality like a door closing on the argument. Sherlock waits a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“But,” Sherlock drawls out the word, looking skeptical. John lowers the paper again, frustration writ large in his features. His lips pull tightly over his teeth. Sherlock keeps his face fixed in an expression of innocent confusion. “You _did_ just admit-”

“It wasn’t like _that,_ Sherlock.” John's voice cuts in angrily.

“Oh.” Sherlock steeples his fingers at his lips. “What was it _like_ , John?” 

“I mean, it wasn’t a matter of…” John moves his hand back and forth in front of his chest. “… _Attraction_.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “…It was a matter of… _life and death.”_

“Interesting… Kissing as a matter of _life and death_?” Sherlock leans forward, his eyes flitting over John. "Do tell."

“I’d rather not talk about it.” John lifts up the paper again. Sherlock’s mouth sets in a petulant pout. He scrutinizes his laptop for a moment. His face slowly relaxes as realization dawns on him. 

“A matter of _life and death_ …” Sherlock rejoins. John sighs heavily. “That would have to be from your army days… one of your _comrades in arms_ then?”

“Christ, Sherlock, can’t you let _anything_ be?” John grumbles in frustration.

“You can _tell me_ or I can _work it out_ …”

John sighs tossing the newspaper to his side table and putting a hand on each arm of his chair as if he might hoist himself up to walk away. He examines Sherlock a long moment, considering. 

Sherlock keeps his expression neutral. “Another army doctor then?”

“A commanding officer.” John retorts, then hesitates. He purses his lips, then lets out a long breath. He sits back, his eyes losing focus as he recalls. “I didn’t know him very well… no one really did. Didn’t get on well with others… He wasn’t unkind or anything, just kept to himself. Took his work very serious… Couldn’t fault him, really - it was _serious_ work - took the green recruits out and when they came back they were men - could hold their nerve through hell and back… I imagine not too many people can do that time and time again…”

“Some people really thought the world of him for that at one time… but he didn’t really care what others thought of him. He always kept his distance. He did his job and kept to himself…” John scratches at his eyebrow with one finger. His cheeks sink in as he thrusts his lips out thoughtfully.

“It makes you vulnerable to be like that. You can’t survive _alone_ over there… things go to hell in the blink of an eye and you need to know the guy next to you has your back… and… I suppose… people don’t mind destroying you when they’ve never really understood you.” 

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows and presses his steelped fingers against his lips. He now recognizes that John had reason to be concerned over what others thought of them both, he’d seen public opinion destroy men. 

“So you were not close to him?” Sherlock reiterates, pulling John back from his silent contemplation.

“Mmm… I’d only met him maybe half a dozen times… Mostly routine medical stuff… I thought maybe he just needed a little help _de-thawing,_ letting his guard down… I ran into him once on my way out to a local pub with some other officers and asked him if he’d like to join. He declined… He looked at the other men that were laughing and talking and seemed uncomfortable. I thought maybe he didn’t go in for crowds… so, next time I saw him I was alone and invited him to go, just he and I… He looked - I don’t know - embarrassed by that…” John blushes a little, running his hand through his hair. _He wasn’t the only one._

“He said he had work to do… But it was the only time I’d ever seen him smile - just a little… He probably didn’t even remember that.” 

Sherlock’s face softens. His mind slips back to the first time he explained to John his deductions and John called him _'amazing.'_

“I am sure he did, John…” It shouldn’t surprise him by now how oblivious John is to his impact on others. The power of his earnest goodwill to transform and redeem. “People _rarely_ forget when others are kind to them - _especially_ when they aren’t used to it.” 

John sits back and sighs. He puts his hand along his face; two fingers at his temple, two resting across his lips. The silence stretches as he sits thinking for a moment. 

“It was a night out then? Little _drunken revelry_?” Sherlock prods gently.

“It was an _ambush_ , actually,” John retorts matter-of-factly. Sherlock leans forward; intrigued. John crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits. This is as an unconscious self-protective gesture, and so Sherlock eases back in his seat a little to give John space. John takes a few deep breaths before he begins.

“He’d taken some new recruits out, as usual… but this time there was an ambush and they got pinned down… We could hear the explosion from the base. There was a scuttle to send out support. I volunteered to go out and provide medical attention….Just 2 of us doctors and 1 nurse went with them.” He pauses and looks at the floor a long moment. His eyes grow darker and his brow draws inward.

“When we got there… it was already too late for a lot of them… We secured a building and set up temporary triage… they just kept coming… Men - _boys_ really - just…” The ex-soldier shakes his head and he presses his eyes closed. 

“I’d been working, it seemed like _hours_ … There were… bodies… _everywhere_ … I couldn’t - I couldn’t save _not one_ of them… I’d patch up one hole and _three more_ would appear. I’d stop the hemorrhaging from a missing limb and their hearts would _stop_ … It was too hot for medvac. The unit was trying their best to keep the building secure, but we were surrounded… Just constant gunfire. I don’t even know when I was hit, really… I think I was just running on adrenaline… Kind of numb all over.” John rubs at his shoulder absently.

“There came a point that they stopped bringing me wounded… I don't know where the other doctor and nurse went but the gunfire was getting more distant and I was just kind of standing there… all bloody and alone in this warehouse, or _whatever it was_ , with all these…” John shakes his head and claps a hand over his mouth. His eyes are watery and he is shaking. He clears his throat and stiffens himself. 

“Then they finally brought him in… He’d been burned badly, all along his left side, and shot in the leg and arm… He was screaming, but not in _pain_ \- though he had to be in a lot - he was screaming _orders_ , screaming _names,_ still commanding his team.” The former soldier's lips draw into a sideways smirk. His wonder and admiration apparent even after all this time. 

“I was just so grateful that there was _someone left_ …” The doctor's voice trembles. He swallows and starts again. 

“He didn’t want to be cared for. He was swinging at the ones that brought him in on the stretcher, yelling at them that he could _still fight._ As soon as they sat him on my table he tried to get up. I wasn’t having any of _that_ \- I pushed him back down… he had a bit on me in height and there was no one else to help… so I guess I kind of threw myself against him and told him to shut up and let me save his life… I don't know… something about the way I did that made him stop… He looked at me and just stopped. He looked around like he was confused where he was, then he looked back at me... and just nodded.”

“I started working on him, cutting uniform off to try to see where all the wounds were and all that… I was taking away his uniform by his shoulder wound when he grabbed me by the wrist and said ’ _you work on the others first. Work on my men.’_ I guess I was numb at that point or maybe I was even angry… not at _him_ really, but at the _situation_ … because I didn’t even think I just replied ’ _there are no other men. They are all dead.”_

“That was probably the cruelest thing I could ever do to another human being. The way he looked at me… I might as well have stabbed him through the heart.” John's golden head shakes back and forth in a tight motion as dark emotions flicker over his face; a potent mix of anger with himself, disappointment, and shame.

“I just kept working. I was in automatic mode. Debrieing wounds, giving injections, stopping bleeding. He must have said my name several times, but I didn’t really hear him until he grabbed my leg and called me _John_. People don’t call you by your first name in the army, it’s always last name and titles.” He reaches down and absently rubs his leg, digging his knuckles in as if to massage away some pain. Sherlock watches closely, noting it is the same leg the former soldier had had the limp in when they first met. 

“His face. The… horror and… sadness… he was actually crying. He said he wasn’t supposed to live, not if his men died… He told me to _stop_ , to _leave him with his men_ \- get out while I could… before I became a corpse too.” John is trembling a little now. He clenches and unclenches his fists. 

“I told him he was being ridiculous…” The ex-army doctor gives a short strained laugh. “That’s when he pulled his gun on me… It didn’t even phase me at the time… I wasn’t scared… I think I was even a little _relieved_ … It’s strange what that sort of situation does to your mind… maybe he saw _that_ in me… I’m sure he was used to seeing all kinds of things in men by then… He told me he had no one that cared for him. ‘I will not be missed in the world.’ He said… He told me that every one of those young men had mother’s and fathers, girlfriends and wives that would mourn them into eternity but when he slipped from this world no one would even notice.” John pushes his lips out, his eyes narrowing.

“I knew exactly how he felt… I had _no one_ either. _No one_ to go back to… _No life_ beyond that war… I was standing there bleeding and aching all over, my ears ringing with the gunfire… I was utterly surrounded by death… and the only other soul - it seemed like the _only_ other person in the world at the time - was giving up… How was I going to save _this life_?”

“So you… _kissed him_?” Sherlock seems baffled. John shifts. He chews his lip a moment.

“Mmmm… Don't know _why_ exactly… I just sort of grabbed his hand and when he started to pull away then I kissed him. Just a brief thing… but I told him no one else was going to die today - we were going to both make it out _together_ … and then we were going to go have _that drink_.” John’s eyes fill with liquid again. He sniffs loudly, pulling back, then continues on in a flat tone. “He looked at me a moment, then he nodded and handed me his gun, and that was it… I continued working.” John falls silent, his eyes dark and distant. 

“Then what?” Sherlock asks quietly. 

John shrugs. “It was only a few minutes after that when the bomb exploded… it is all kind of a blur after that… Soldiers rushed in, they pulled me off of him and took us both to a transport truck… I woke up in the hospital, face down and drugged up for a few days… When I was well enough to get about, he wasn’t there… He’d probably been moved home or somewhere for more intensive needs… It was months before I even knew he’d made it." John rests his hand against his face again; fingers against his temple and across his mouth, slowly rubbing back and forth across his lips. 

“One thing about battle… when you're hemorrhaging… when you’re certain you’re going to die… you’re not terribly picky about what’s going to stop the bleeding… You reach for whatever you can lay hands on and hold on for dear life.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

John shakes his head slowly. “Thing was, he _wasn’t wrong_ , at least as far as most people were concerned… they thought he should have died there that day… His life got pretty hard after that - it was _hell_ really. He ultimately went into hiding… I couldn’t help but feel responsible.”

John's eyes slide across the floor and up to Sherlock’s as if it takes some effort to look at him now.

“Satisfied?” His voice is stiff.

Sherlock’s eyes widen marginally and he gives a small nod.


End file.
